


reboot

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Plug, Bathing/Washing, Beating, Bottom Will Graham, Caning, Creampie, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Memory Loss, Pain, Physical Abuse, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Someone Help Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 01:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "I know you're scared, darling, I know you don't understand. That's alright – I won't leave you. I promised I wouldn't. I will see you return to me again."





	reboot

He wakes up in pain. He groans, trying to move, gasping and struggling when he finds himself bound at his neck, his ankles, his shoulders, thighs, and elbows, face-down, to a table. The metal is cold against his skin, the legs unmoving as he struggles and fights. His face is pressed into a thick leather-clad ring, so he can see below himself – see a black tile floor, the edge of a mirror, and a small television set. The table is low enough that he can bend his arms, and let his hands fall on either side of the table, and drag his nails along the floor.

His vision swims into focus, and he swallows, narrowing his eyes as he sees, in the black tile, scratches like someone tried to claw their way through the floor. His nails and fingers ache terribly, and he turns them, sees them bent back and stained with blood.

He shivers, trying not to panic.

"Your name is Will," the first line reads. Will. He blinks, and frowns, and wonders why he doesn't know that already. He doesn't remember…anything. His life began the moment he opened his eyes, and with it comes pain, shards of it screaming up from his fingers, in harsh lines along his back like someone has been hitting him with a long, thin implement. His jaw aches, too, and when he tests his lip with his teeth, it stings like it has been cut. His cheeks feel tender and sore against the leather ring. His shoulders, his legs where he's bound, feel crusted on the edges of the binds. He thinks they might be cutting into him – he might have bled, and it might have dried during his unconsciousness.

Panic wells up in him anew, and he wets his lips, wincing at the sting – his tongue hurts, aches like he has had nothing but salt, too-dry and brittle. It hurts his lip when he licks it. He gazes down and sees, below the scratches that gave him his name, another message.

"His name is Hannibal."

"Hannibal," he whispers, testing the name. He frowns, for it brings no memory, no face or sound. He doesn't know who this 'Hannibal' is.

"He's going to hurt you."

"You have to let him."

Will's frown deepens, and he goes tense when he hears a door open, struggling to fight his way free, to lift his head, but he can't with the strap around his neck. He lets out a soft whimper of distress, clenching his fists tightly and trying to swing out at the approaching clack of shoes on tile.

His entire body shudders with fear, as he sees the other person's shoes come to a halt at his periphery, standing by his head. He reaches out, his ruined nails and injured fingers touching soft material, a strong thigh. He whines.

"Are you -?" His voice is ragged, throat raw from disuse. Or perhaps overuse, he feels like he's been gargling sand. "Are you Hannibal?"

There is a pause, and then a sigh, and a gentle touch to his hair. "Yes, Will, I am," the person replies. It is a man, Will hears his voice and knows that, the words hard to understand over the rush of blood in Will's ears. "How are you feeling?"

"Where am I? Who are you? What's -?"

Hannibal sighs again, and Will stiffens, shrieking in pain as something sharp snaps across his back. It burns him, in a long line of agony, and he shudders and sweats as he feels his skin blister and redden from the strike.

He braces himself for another blow, but none comes. Hannibal's other hand is still gentle in his hair, spiraling Will's brain between pain and tenderness. His body shivers, flexes, wanting to curl up and hide away from the pain.

"You were in a terrible accident," Hannibal tells him, and Will is certain that this is not the first time he's been told, if his tone of voice is any indication – patient, but firm, dissuading Will from asking questions or protesting. "You are in here for your own protection."

Will swallows. He doesn't understand. "My protection?" he asks, and hopes he doesn't get another hit for asking.

But it comes, another sharp line, a sharp crack and Will cries out, shoulders tensing beneath the bands of leather keeping him down. His skin, sensitive and cracking with sweat, splits under the edges of it, and the scent of blood reaches him at the same time he sees a single line of red drip down his fingers, onto the scratched tile below him.

"I'm sorry," he says frantically, desperately trying to get away from another hit. "I'm sorry, please. I just…. I don't know what's going on."

Hannibal hums, and Will shivers when he feels the man lean down, brushing Will's sweaty hair from his face, and growls into his ear; "Watch your video."

Will frowns, but just as Hannibal says the words, the screen beneath his face flickers on with a crackle of static, and Will's eyes widen when he looks at the grainy image – it's a little blurry, out of focus, and he doesn't recognize the man in the frame. But he sees his split lip, the smudges of black beneath his eyes, his thick brown hair and bruised cheek and jaw. Sees his hands, clawed and broken, and thinks they look a lot like his own.

This is him he's seeing, he's sure of it. Some past version of himself.

The man shifts on the screen, looks in pain, grimacing tightly as he shifts his weight and clutches his stomach. Will can't see what's hurting him below his clothes, but he sucks in a breath, testing, and winces when his stomach tightens and aches as though horribly bruised.

"Hello, Will," the version of him on the screen says. Hannibal moves away from him and Will whines, unable to look up and see what he's doing, or where he's going. His back hurts, his fingers hurt, everything fucking _hurts_ , God, he doesn't want to be awake and aware if this is what awareness is. "I know you're probably really scared right now, and you have a lot of questions."

Will swallows, and puts his focus back on the screen.

"We were in an accident," the Will on the screen tells him. He is, Will thinks, in the same room – Will can see the black tile and the mirror behind him, reflecting to the camera. In the mirror, he sees another man, and knows that this man is Hannibal. He looks monstrous, silhouetted in shadow, standing behind the camera as it records this past version of him. "We wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for Hannibal. Whatever happens, we have to trust him."

Will shivers, and doesn't know how he's supposed to trust a man who hurts him for asking questions.

"There's something fucked up in our head, Will," the past version of himself says. "It's like…amnesia, but worse. Every time we go to sleep, we forget everything. Our name, our life, all of it. Hannibal is helping us."

 _How_? Will wants to scream it. He doesn't know where Hannibal is, but can feel the man's eyes on him, sharp and predatory.

"The only way to remember is through pain," he hears, and blinks rapidly as, in the mirror on the screen, Hannibal moves. The Will on the screen stiffens, looking up at him, and breathes in deeply, his hand clenching tightly on his stomach. "I swear it works. If you want to remember, you have to let Hannibal hurt you."

Will tries to shake his head, but can't with the way he's bound. On the screen, that Hannibal approaches Will, slides a hand through his hair and Will trembles, feeling it again, in real time, as Hannibal touches him, cradles his skull and presses so that his bruised cheeks press to the leather of the ring.

The Hannibal on the screen turns away, approaching the camera, and the video shuts off with another crackle and goes dark.

"Do you understand now, Will?" Hannibal murmurs to him, and flattens his other hand on Will's nape. It hurts there, too, flesh tender and raw beneath the strap. He flinches, whimpering when his too-dry skin cracks and splits beneath the straps, blood beading warm and wet and running down his shoulders and arms.

"Please," he begs. "I don't want to remember. I don't want to hurt."

Hannibal sighs, and kisses his hair in an action almost tender. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, darling, but this treatment is working." Will swallows, breathing heavily, his heart racing as the panic starts to set in anew. Why is Hannibal calling him 'darling'? How did they know each other, before? What _happened_?

He refuses to ask those questions, knowing he will only receive pain as his answer.

"Every time you wake up, you are more like yourself."

"Maybe pain isn't the only way," he whispers frantically. Wishes he could _see._

Hannibal sighs. He has probably said this before; "Believe me, Will, we have tried everything." And he sounds genuinely sad at that, petting down Will's bleeding shoulders, his burning spine. Presses, sharply, at a particularly sore part of Will's back, and Will tenses, gritting his teeth to stifle his moan of pain.

But with it, a flicker of warmth. A shadow of a memory – Hannibal, him, cloaked in firelight, sharing wine. He gasps, and feels Hannibal smile. "See?" he whispers. The image is gone as quick as it came, and Will shakes his head again as hard as he can, though the table and ring do not budge.

He blinks down at the scratches on the tile. "You must let him," the words say. Must he? _Must he_?

He swallows, wincing at his dry tongue, his split lip. "Can I have some water?"

Hannibal's hands still, freeze on him. Will blinks, for he doesn't know why, and tenses, because it was a question, and might earn him another strike.

"You're thirsty?" Hannibal whispers, and Will nods, lets out a rough, needy sound. "That's…that's good, Will. That's the first time you've asked for water. Of course." His hands move away, as does the sound of his shoes in a hurry, and Will sighs as the door closes.

He has bought himself some time, at least.

The trickle of his blood wets the leather, and he rolls his shoulders, testing the binds. They hold steady, and he growls, twisting his arms up to try and loosen the ones at his elbows. Still, they do not give him an inch. He will not be able to wriggle himself free.

He goes lax with another rough sound, as Hannibal returns, and a hand holds a glass of water with a straw beneath his lips. Will takes the straw into his mouth, sucking the water down quickly, until the glass is empty. Hannibal's breathing is heavy and loud – excited, Will thinks, like he has just discovered something deemed impossible by science.

"Oh, Will," he breathes, and pets through Will's hair, which is now growing damp with panicked sweat. "I know you're scared, darling, I know you don't understand. That's alright – I won't leave you. I promised I wouldn't. I will see you return to me again."

Will shakes his head, lets out a weak, desperate sound of protest, his fingers clenching as Hannibal moves away from him. He circles the table, Will can see his shoes and the bottom of his suit pants in the mirror.

He tenses, as suddenly the table creaks, and Will winces as he feels his heels and thighs pushed apart, on pieces of the table that swing out to allow Hannibal to step between them. His hands flatten on Will's hips, below the strap around his waist, and dig in tightly.

Will stiffens, and lets out a cry of alarm as he feels pressure against his ass, something blunt and heavy – not Hannibal himself, it's cold and feels like metal – press against him. Hannibal pushes it in and Will cries out again, shuddering and stiffening as the cold, huge metal plug forces its way into his body, past his rim and piercing his clenching muscles.

"Stop," he begs, and tries to reach back, to push Hannibal away, but he can't, he doesn't have the leverage. " _Please_." It hurts, it aches, a ricochet of burning cold running up his spine, making his heart quiver and his lungs seize. Every part of him tenses and the tension just makes it hurt more. He is bruised, feels shattered at the level of his bones, and just wants it to _stop_.

"It's alright, Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will feels his fingers wrap around the end of the plug, pull it back until the widest part is stretching Will, and without lube or preparation, and with how tense and broken Will is, it hurts, _fuck_ , it hurts.

But with the pain comes another memory, another flicker of something, something – dark halls made of stone, lit by candlelight. Hunting, hunting his monster, the man he chased across the sea. "Hannibal! Hannibal," calling for him. "I forgive you."

Will groans, shakes it from his thoughts, doesn't know what it means. What did he forgive? More of this? "Please," Will murmurs, weaker now, as Hannibal forces the plug back inside him. It seems no matter how tightly Will clenches, how much he seeks to warm the metal, it will not, and pierces him fierce and cold. "Just let me forget."

"No, darling," Hannibal snaps, angry now. "I will not."

Will trembles, sweating in earnest, his heart hammering double-time. Another thrust, and there's blood in his mouth. Another, there's a man with a knife and a man he recognizes as Hannibal staring at him, bleeding from the belly. Another; Hannibal smiling at him, easing a gun from his fingers. Another; Hannibal shoving a knife into his stomach, gutting him, making him gush blood.

Will screams, holding his hair in his hands, shaking his head vehemently. Hannibal stops with the plug, pushes it deep, and Will whimpers as the rod returns, a series of hard hits down his back in raised red lines. Down the innards of his parted thighs.

Dogs. A man with flowers in his chest. Snow, snow, endless snow. Bars between him and Hannibal. A plastic wall with holes in it.

"You just came here to look at me."

"Hannibal, please!"

"Get the old scent again."

Another hit. Blood pooling on his shoulders, around his thighs, dripping to the floor. The pour of rain on his head, dripping down his neck. It rained the night he was gutted. Another twist of the plug, another burn of ice and fire on his back. A man with bloody dragon's wings.

"It's beautiful."

A fall. Cliffs. A girl with a scar on her neck. Oceans. A chapel holding the mutilated body, shaped into a broken heart.

Will's body convulses, shrieking in pain from the continued onslaught, and oh, _God_. Finally, finally, he cannot fight it – must surrender, he must. He goes limp, trembling finely, and lets out a single, weak moan.

Hannibal stops immediately, and his hand curls in Will's hair, between Will's own white-knuckled, sore fingers.

"Hannibal," he breathes.

"Yes, darling?"

Will whimpers, closes his eyes. Blocks out the black tile and the scratches and the screen, and slowly, slowly, wraps his fingers around those of his monster.

"Let me see you."

Hannibal's exhale is heavy, and Will gasps, eyes flaring open as he feels his legs get pushed together again, the plug removed from his sore, aching rim, the cane dropped and rolling to the floor beneath his face. Feels the straps lift and separate in a burst of fresh blood and sweat.

He pushes himself to his hands and knees, breathing hard, every part of him sore and fractured, and turns his head. Hannibal cups his face, tender, so gentle when compared to his brutal assault of Will's body mere moments before.

He lifts his eyes.

Hannibal's gaze meets his, and Will knows that look. Knows this man, this monster. He doesn't know if these tears are from pain, from relief, from something else entirely, but he sags into Hannibal's arms, clutches him and trembles as Hannibal embraces him tightly.

"Will," he says, and the sound of his name is ragged and like shards of glass on his skin. Hannibal is shaking as much as he is. "Oh, Will, there you are."

Will swallows. "I'm going to forget again," he says.

Hannibal shivers, and clings to him tightly despite the pain Will is in. He pulls back, cups Will's face, and Will's eyes are not the only ones wet now. "I'll keep trying," Hannibal promises. "I have to. I will not rest."

"Just kill me," Will whispers.

Hannibal shakes his head vehemently. "No," he snarls, his hands tightening on Will's bruised, aching jaw. "No."

"Hannibal, please. Even if I don't remember it each time, I don't want to live like this."

"You'd be alive," Hannibal replies. "You'd be with me."

"It's not me."

Hannibal swallows, his face a mask of pain, and Will isn't even angry that Hannibal is hurting, by hurting him. Will has always suffered more as a result of Hannibal's love. He shifts his weight, wincing, and sits on the edge of the table, low enough that his feet touch the floor, as Hannibal kneels in front of him.

"If you don't do it, I will," he says. "Or I'll kill you, before you strap me down again."

Hannibal's mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Not the first time you've made such promises, darling," he says. And Will doesn't know if that's true, but it seems in character for him to do so.

He sighs, flattening his hands on Hannibal's shoulders, his grip too weak to squeeze, and rests their foreheads together. "It hurts," he whispers.

Hannibal sighs, and nods. "If you can stay awake, I'll run you a bath, and feed you, and take care of you," he replies, and stands. Will doesn't want to fight it, doesn't want to deny himself even a vague promise of pleasure. He lets Hannibal pull him to his feet, wincing and hissing as his caned soles land heavy on the floor. Hannibal must half-carry him out of the room, and into a short hallway. Further, still, into a bathroom with a tub already full of steaming water. Prepared to the last – just like Hannibal to be.

Will smiles, and with Hannibal's help, climbs into the tub. The water is scalding on his sensitive skin and he whimpers in pain, sinking into it, hoping that soon the ache will dull to a throb, and he can relax. Every part of him hurts and he clenches his teeth, tips his head back, and closes his eyes.

"No, Will, keep them open," Hannibal murmurs, touching his cheek and smiling when Will obeys. "Stay awake, darling. Stay with me."

Will's lips twitch in a smile. "Where else would I go?"

Hannibal blinks at him, his eyes shining, and he lets out a soft exhale. He takes Will's bruised arm, cupping some of the warm water and letting it run down from his wrist, wiping away blood and sweat and dirt. Will is scarred all over, he sees it now – the one on his belly, age-old. Newer biting cuts from straps and whips and whatever else Hannibal has used on him before this time.

"How long has it been?" he asks.

Hannibal swallows, and looks away. "Almost a year, now, I think."

A _year_? Will stares at him, openly, and Hannibal clenches his jaw.

"I won't stop."

Will swallows, and curls his fingers, catching the sleeve of Hannibal's shirt in his bloody nails. "Touch me," he says. Hannibal regards him, wide-eyed. "Even if I don't remember. Maybe, maybe next time I will. I want you to touch me."

Hannibal breathes out, heavily.

"Have I asked for that before?"

"No," Hannibal murmurs, and in his eyes is true, pure longing now. "Never."

Will smiles. "Maybe I am getting better, then."

Hannibal's exhale is heavy again, shuddering, and he turns his head, takes Will's hand in his, and kisses his knuckles. "I hope so."

 

 

He wakes in semi-darkness, pressed to a warm mattress. His belly is streaked with come, and above him, a man moves powerfully, snarling against his neck, his hands tight in his hips as he fucks in brutally, splitting him apart. He tenses up, he doesn't remember getting here, doesn't know this man – his body stings, aches all over, bruised and tender and raw and he lets out a sharp, high sound of distress.

The man freezes, pressed deep inside him as he tightens up, trying to force him out, and he grits his teeth when he hears the man come. It stings his tender insides, and a flash of _something_ passes behind his eyelids.

He knows this man. He knows -.

He shoves the man off him, scrambling upright, panting heavily. Looks down at himself, eyes widening in horror when he sees bruises, cuts, scars beyond count. The man beside him has scars, too, though far fewer.

"I…" He runs a hand through his hair, gazes wide-eyed at marks on his elbows, from what looks like bindings and restraints. Panic flares up in him and he freezes when the man straightens, looks at him with dark eyes.

He knows this man, he does, doesn't he?

"Where am I?" he whispers.

The man looks at him, and his expression is unreadable for a long moment, before he heaves a shuddering breath, clenches his fists. He looks like he is suddenly overcome with a powerful wave of emotion, that crumbles behind his face, makes his shoulders sag.

"I know you," he says, and the man's eyes snap to him, and widen. Hope, glimmering like a weak flame. "I –. I know you. But I don't know you. I don't…"

The man reaches for him, cups his hands, and he is not afraid.

"Your name is Will," he says. Will. _Will_. He blinks, frowning down at their hands. "My name is Hannibal."

Will shakes his head. "I don't remember."

Hannibal sighs, forlorn, aching, but his touch is no less tender. "It's alright," he says softly. Will doesn't know what to think, but he woke up with no memory before this man, in his bed, fucking him – that means something. Right? It has to mean something.

Hannibal stands, and pulls Will to unsteady feet. "Come with me, darling," he murmurs. "We made a new video, last night. It will explain everything."

Will nods. Doesn't know what he means by a video, old or new, but he follows when Hannibal leads him from the bedroom – trusting, because he knows this man. Somehow. Recognizes his scent and the warmth of his touch on Will's skin. Trusts, and follows, because he has no reason not to.


End file.
